


House of Mirrors

by lamardeuse



Series: Indian Summer [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-29
Updated: 2010-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-08 10:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day at the funhouse has Doggett thinking about his so-called life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks: to Jim and Kristine, who put up with my "hey, read this, wouldja?" exhortations.
> 
> In honour of Ray Bradbury, a man who understands the magic that lives in summer things, in funhouses and cotton candy and the memories of childhood. And to Veronica, who I belatedly realized was the inspiration for Carmen.

It's a hot Saturday afternoon and I'm standing in the middle of a dusty, crowded midway. Music blares, lights flash and chase one another on huge marquees advertising fun for a price, three shots at your heart's desire for two bucks. Around me, hundreds of screaming, ice-cream coated kids drag their worn-out parents from one ride to another. They're all desperate to squeeze one last drop out of summer before homework and 24/7 jobs suck them back to reality.

Christ, I missed this.

The only person I know who could get me to a place like this is stuffing her face full of multicoloured cotton candy. Catching my eye, she offers me a wad ofit. Some devil in me who hasn't surfaced since I was a horny sixteen year old takes hold of her wrist and pulls her hand toward my mouth. I watch her face change, her pupils darken slightly as my tongue makes only the lightest contact with one of her fingers. Then the mask comes down and she's looking like nothing's happened. I let go of her arm and it drops to her side as if she's forgotten it's attached.

"Aunt Monica! Can we go on this one?"

Carmen is one of the weirdest little girls I've ever met, which I suppose is appropriate. I've never seen any pictures of my partner as a rug rat, but Carmen has to be the spitting image of her aunt at eleven. She's already racking up enough height to intimidate the boys, with gangly arms and legs that are outgrowing the rest of her. We were introduced Thursday in the Hoover when Monica took her on a guided tour. Before I knew it I was completely under her spell; she was calling me John like we were old buddies and inviting me to spend the day with them that weekend.

"Aunt Monica's taking me to a fair in Rockville. It's advertised as a 'trip back in time' to the fun fairs of the nineteen-thirties and forties."

"I hope the rides aren't that old," I joked.

The girl nodded seriously at me, as if she was the adult and I was the juvenile. "Some of them are, but they've been restored, of course. I imagine they're perfectly safe."

I stared at her for a few seconds. "That's good to know."

"You will come with us, won't you? You don't look like you smile enough, and you have such a nice smile."

I looked up at Monica then for – I don't know what. At first I thought I wanted to be rescued from this kooky kid, but then I saw the unguarded expression in Auntie Monica's eyes for that split second. It promised all kinds of things I shouldn't be wishing for, and suddenly I wanted to spend the day with crazy Carmen and her equally crazy aunt more than anything I could think of. Besides, I'd spent too many Saturday afternoons lately polishing my weapon. The one for shooting, not the one for fun. Don't get any ideas.

"Which one?" Monica scans the midway, seemingly grateful for an excuse to turn away from me. Meanwhile, I mentally slug myself for making her uncomfortable – again. I'm making a habit of it, and that isn't like me. At forty-one, it's way too late to blame it on hormones. And I don't go around harassing women, no matter how attractive they are in those damned cutoff shorts she wears and sleeveless tops that show off the curve of her shoulder. Since when do I get excited about shoulders?

"It's the little roller coaster."

"I thought you were – that you didn't like roller coasters," Monica tells her softly, obviously not wanting to embarrass her niece by talking about her fears in front of me.

"But it's not very big. I'd like to try it. Would you come with me? You need an adult with you if you're under twelve." Carmen rolls her eyes at the injustice.

"Uh – " Monica stutters, her gaze flickering over the ride, and I fight off a grin. The woman who isn't afraid of ghosts, goblins or little green men is afraid of heights. My hand reaches out without my permission and touches her arm, and she jumps about a foot. Her eyes swing toward me, fire burning in them.

"I'm not afraid," she hisses.

"I didn't say you were," I counter, and then it hits me that I had. Just not out loud.

Man. Who knew I was spookier than Spooky?

"Look," I say, turning to Carmen, "I love roller coasters. Do you think I could come with you?"

The kid smiles up at me as if I've just made her decade. "Thank you," she tells me, and takes me by the hand. My heart dives for my shoes at the feel of small, warm fingers curled in mine. I look down, half expecting to see him.

I can do this. I can.

Monica isn't the only one who's scared, though it's not any physical threat that's twisting my gut. I'm scared shitless of this woman and what she's been able to do to me in the space of a summer. When I first drafted her into the X-Files, the last thing on my mind was sex. Seriously. I know us guys are supposed to have our brains lodged somewhere near our John Thomases, but it's never been an issue for me at work. To put it bluntly, I don't crap where I eat. It's not that there aren't some very attractive women in the field of law enforcement, but when your life and the lives of your colleagues might be on the line, you don't want to start messing around with the people who are supposed to be at your back.

The thing is, I never really got to know her the last time we worked together. The last time we worked together, an H-bomb could've gone off beside me and I wouldn't have known it until pieces of me started raining down on Fifth Avenue. But since she's joined the X-Files, I've had a chance to see the real Monica Reyes. And she's a nut. Certifiable. I'm sure she believes in the Tooth Fairy. And she also has a heart that won't quit and a wicked grin and the attitude that life is meant to be eaten in big bites. She's not anything like the women who've been able to tie me in knots before – not the least demure, or delicate, or in need of my protection. Yeah, I know I tend to go overboard with that last one. It was a predetermined character flaw – the minute I was born Southern and male. Nothing I can do about it.

Believe me, I've spent a few sleepless nights lately trying to figure out what happens to me when she's around. She's got me half convinced I'm some kind of spoon bending freak. She pushes me to do psychic exercises to hone my so-called skills. It wouldn't surprise me if I'm reading tea leaves soon. But she's also got me laughing and goofing off and going to fun fairs. She's got me wanting to play hooky from this life I've made for myself. And that scares me worse than the highest roller coaster. Because it's safe where I am. Even if it is a cramped, filthy foxhole that's rapidly filling with water.

Add to all of this the fact that I've been living like a monk since my divorce, and, well, you've got a guy who's thinking with his dick. I admit it; happy now?

Within a few minutes, Carmen and I are sitting in the ride. I lower the bar over us both. The roller coaster is an old wood-frame contraption built in the shape of a cube. The track weaves through it and forms tight ninety-degree turns where it hits the corners. I don't know if she's going to enjoy this all that much.

"I'm scared to death," Carmen states as if she's announcing the weather.

"Do you want to get off?" I rubberneck, trying to find the attendant.

"No. It's past time to face my fears."

I can't help it. I laugh out loud. Then, realizing she might think I'm making fun of her, I tell her, "I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you, Carmen." She stares at me, one eyebrow raised. She's not buying it. Suddenly, I find my mouth forming the words, "I – I was thinking somethin' similar just now, and it occurred to me you're a lot braver than I am." I'm not sure why I feel the need to confess this to her, but it's out before I know it.

She chews on this a minute. "I think you're the bravest person I've ever met," she says finally. Her eyes bore into me, digging up my soul.

"What makes you say that?" I start to get uneasy under her assessing gaze, so much like Monica's.

"You seem older than you are. Like you've seen things, felt things. Too much." She shakes her head. "I'm not describing it very well; I'm a little preoccupied."

She's describing it well enough. My heart's racing like an Indy car. "Has your aunt told you anything about me?"

Another shake of the head. "No."

"Then how – "

"Well, Aunt Monica thinks I have a bit of the gift. It runs in the family – in the girl children. But I think I'm just a student of human nature." Before I can tell her exactly what I think she is, the car jerks under us. "Oh dear. Here we go." Her hands grip the bar in front of her, the knuckles turning white.

I take my right hand and lay it over her left, warming the cold fingers. "I've got you."

She looks over at me, and for an insane moment she's my kid. Mine and Monica's.

"I can see why she's in love with you," Carmen murmurs, just before the car starts rolling forward and her eyes screw shut.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

I've been chopped into pieces.

The mirror in front of me bows in and out crazily, distorting my image. There's a head, no neck, then another fragment starts just under the shoulders and ends below my rib cage. The last two curves carve up my legs into two equal parts.

"Hey! Try this one over here!"

Carmen, invigorated by her dance with death on the roller coaster, is shedding energy like a blast wave. She weaves between me and Monica, never satisfied, revisiting mirrors she's already seen ten times. I'm not sure if she's looking for a new Carmen or hoping to find herself on a funhouse wall.

Or maybe she's just being a kid.

I can sense Monica's gaze on me as I bend and straighten, then flail my arms, watching the size and shape of the pieces change. Then I go over to join her niece at her latest discovery. She's twirling this way and that, presenting different sides to the mirror. It gives her a huge head and tiny feet, tapering her into nothingness.

"It makes me feel like I'm expanding into the universe." She stretches her arms above her head and her fingers swell to the size of summer sausages. Stepping back, she allows me some personal time with myself. I try it out, understanding now that I had the direction all wrong. Leave it to an eleven-year-old to remind me to look up, not down.

"Imagine if this mirror were fifty feet tall, a hundred. You could ride an elevator up it, and by the time you reached the top, you could do anything. You'd step across oceans and climb Everest in one stride." The voice is Monica's. I'm in a time warp; if I turn around, we'll all be kids, running through summer at the speed of reflected light. The walls dissolve as the three of us gallop over the world in our new bodies.

"Wow." I'm not sure which one of us says it.

The sound of laughter back at the entrance to the funhouse shrinks us back to normal size. Without another word, we shuffle toward the exit.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Shadows are starting to lengthen as the afternoon wears itself out. Monica and I haven't talked much today, but the silence doesn't bother me as we sit on a bench watching Carmen on the old-fashioned carousel. It's not a big surprise she didn't choose one of the horses; instead, she waves to us from a wooden flying fish. Strangely, I think about the guy who put all that effort into carving those animals, long before any of us was born. I wonder if I'll leave something behind that'll last.

Hell. Just – hell.

My arm's flung out across the back of the bench, and I can feel the heat radiating off her. It's unusual to see her at rest like this. She always seems to be in constant motion, like that wind-up ballerina in a music box my sister had. I have to tell my fingers not to burrow into her dark, silky hair, brush the back of her neck. I want to know what she's feeling. I want to crawl inside her and share some of that energy, that heat and light.

I turn my attention back to the carousel. Carmen shoots me a look on her way by, as though she's read my mind. "She's a neat – person," I hear myself say. 'Kid' doesn't seem to cut it anymore.

"She's a nut," Monica smiles, and I start at the echo of my own thoughts. "That's why I love her so much."

"She's your sister's daughter?"

Monica nods and turns toward me. My hand grips the back of the bench. "I used to see her a lot while I was in New Orleans, but now that I'm in Washington..." She trails off, then lifts one of her hands from her lap and drops it. "I'm afraid we're going to lose touch."

"Is most of your family in Texas?"

"Tony's in Arizona, but yeah, my parents are still in Galveston and so is my sister. I've got some aunts and uncles near San Antonio."

"I'm sorry." Her face registers confusion. "I mean, I never asked. I just dragged you into this thing."

Her features soften at my show of concern, and something flips inside me. "Listen, I knew this job involved transfers. It's not like I'll never see her again. And it makes our times together that much more special." She glances at her watch. "It's getting late. I've got to get some supper into this girl. She's growing as we speak."

"Where are you gonna eat?"

"Home, I guess. I didn't have a chance to go shopping yesterday, so I'll have to stop on the way, after we drop you off."

"Why don't you have supper with me?" Her eyes meet mine, hold them. "Both of you. There's a fresh air market not far from my place. It doesn't have any horse meat, but I think we can find something."

She smiles at the reminder of our Montreal case. I still dream about the day we spent there, buying tomatoes and pasta like an old married couple. They'd be pretty damn boring to everyone else on the planet, but when you've given up hoping for a normal life, those dreams are as exciting as any X-rated fantasy.

"Sure," she tells me finally, her voice low and quiet. "I think Carmen would enjoy that. She's gotten attached to you, you know."

How about her aunt? I ask silently. My fingers reach out, but I turn coward before I can connect. We stand together to collect Carmen from the carousel as it slows.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

They've found my Otis Redding CD. I hear muffled voices, then the opening horn attack of "Shake" pours from the stereo at full tilt. Carmen comes boogieing into the kitchen, arms and legs tossed carelessly in all directions.

The laugh cannonballs out of me. "Girl, you've got 'bout as much rhythm as a frog in a blender."

"OTIS IS GOD!!" she screams, gyrating frantically.

I load up another skewer with chicken, peppers and onions, then dump it into a marinade of lemon juice, olive oil and spices. Monica pokes her head in the doorway.

"Is it safe yet?" she asks.

"Out!" I holler."You're gonna ruin my tough guy image."

"Give it up, John," Carmen jiggles. "You're a marshmallow." She pirouettes over to the stove. "Spanish rice, yet. What a pansy."

"Yeah, well, I'm barbecuing. Over an open flame. That's got to be good for somethin'."

"A hundred bonus points," Monica drawls, inspecting the rice. She sticks a fork in it and gives it a taste.

"You sneak any more tabasco in there and you're askin' for trouble."

An evil grin splits her face. "I thought you good ol' boys liked the hot stuff," she challenges. Then her eyes widen as she realizes what she's just said.

Jesus. Intentional or not, I feel like I've been gut-punched.

"Hoo boy," Carmen exhales, flapping at her face with an imaginary fan. "There's enough hormones in here to jumpstart me into puberty. Feets don't fail me now." She boogies out again, leaving me, Monica and my dick to carry on a conversation. Unfortunately for me, my dick probably has more to say at this moment.

Monica, flushing a little pink around the cheekbones, leans against the counter as far away from me as she can get. "I, ah, where did you learn to make souvlaki?" she asks, pitching her voice way above the sound of the stereo and wincing at the excessive volume. Oh well, at least we're back in high school together.

"Democrat Hot Springs' only restaurant was Greek. How the hell the family ever ended up there I'll never know. When I was about ten the grandfather came over from the Old Country. He took a shine to me – all his grandkids were girls. He couldn't speak a word of English, but he taught me a lot of the recipes, sort of passing them on, I guess. I was the only boy in fifth grade who knew what phyllo pastry was." I shake my head, remembering. "That kitchen smelled like twelve kinds of heaven. I think my dad worried about me until I joined the Marines."

When I look up from skewering she's studying me with those bottomless brown eyes. "Every time I think I know you a little better, you show me I don't know you at all."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" I ask lightly, glad she can't hear my heart pounding.

"Definitely a good thing. Keeps me on my toes."

As I try to decipher that comment – as cryptic as a mash note from the brainy girl in biology class – Carmen yells from the other room, "Some of us are getting hungry! For food!"

Monica points toward the doors leading to the patio. "I'll check on the coals." She takes off, jet-propelled.

I return my attention to the cubes of cold chicken as Otis slides into "She Put the Hurt On Me." No shit, Sherlock.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Carmen lies unconscious on my patio swing, totally oblivious to outside stimuli as Monica, standing beside her, pushes the swing gently with one hand on the back of the seat. I've wondered a hundred times why I bought it; it's built for two, what's the point? But tonight I know it was worth every penny.

I take another sip of my spiked coffee and watch them. She's been out cold for a good twenty minutes, plenty of time for Monica to wake her up, make her excuses and run like a scalded cat, but for some reason she hasn't yet. It's as though a spell has descended over my back yard and holds us all suspended, and I stay silent to keep from breaking it. I like it here, like the peace that crawls into my pores while I observe the open look of love on Monica's face as she rocks her niece. She's no stranger to the efficient, professional expression that Scully and every other woman puts on at work, but she sheds it a lot easier.

Scully. There was a time there – I thought – I don't know what I thought. Somehow my brain managed to conveniently block the fact she was, is, and always will be Fox Mulder's soul mate. I never used to believe in that Harlequin Romance crap, but seeing them together was a blow to my world view in more ways than one. Even then, I couldn't see them as a couple; frankly, I didn't think he was the kind of guy she needed or deserved. At times he still seems like an overgrown kid to me, the pretty boy genius whose mamma always told him he was better than everybody else. But in some respects, I'd have to say his mamma was right, and I can't deny he worships her, just not in any way I'm used to. That's worth something in my book.

The hell of it is, Scully's the type of woman every Southern man would die defending, would drown carrying across mud puddles. She's Scarlett O'Hara in pantsuits, a fire-breathing, gorgeous, compact feminine package. Add her pregnancy on top of that and I found myself chomping at the bit some days to keep from sweeping her into my arms and protecting her like some half-assed Rhett Butler. I remember when that bat-thing was trying to strip the hide from my back, all I could hear was my daddy shouting, "You keep that girl safe, y'hear?" over and over. That nightmare could have eaten me alive and my last thought would have been: I failed her. Is that love or instinct? I still don't know. And I'm not planning to waste any time trying to figure it out. That chapter is closed.

So is this one, if Monica has anything to say about it. On our last case, she made it crystal clear even to this thickheaded cracker that she wasn't interested in anything I might be selling. And I was too stunned at discovering I was even interested in being a salesman again to put up a fight. She told me she's been burned by an FBI type before, some idiot who tried to make her into something she wasn't. I can relate to that fear, because I'm flat-out terrified every time I think of how she's changing me from what I am into what I was.

She's performing a miracle of resurrection as incredible as Mulder's and she doesn't even know it.

When Carmen began to wind down, I switched the music from high-powered R&amp;B to more mellow jazz. Now Ella is crooning "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" and just under the powerful vocals I can hear Monica humming along. The vibration stirs the air around me and before I realize it I'm walking toward her. She isn't aware of me until I'm only inches away, and even then she doesn't raise her head. But the humming stops.

Have I ruined it, broken the spell? Too late to worry about that.

"May I have this dance?" I take care not to make any move with my hands or arms, as though she's a wild mustang, easily spooked.

She looks up at me then, and her eyes hold a reflection of the emotion she was giving Carmen a moment ago. Even knowing it's not meant for me, the glimpse into her open heart has me reeling.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she tells me, her voice husky.

I shake my head. "You're right. It's not." I'm sure she must be able to smell the need on me. Any second now she's going to bolt, gather up Carmen and I'll never see either of them again. Not like this; she won't allow it.

Instead, she just nods, clears her throat. "As long as we're both clear on that." Her left hand settles on my shoulder and her right hangs expectantly in the air.

When I touch her, it all caves in on me.

Jesus jesus jesus. The feelings swamp the leaky liferaft I call my sanity before I even know I'm in the water. I thrash around, trying to get to safety. Pieces of me fall off and drop away, leaving raw, exposed flesh. I sense another presence in the water, and think of sharks.

But instead of tearing into me, her touch soothes, offers warmth and light. Her hand's on me, pulling me to shore.

In spite of all the exercises I've done, I can't begin to sort out the blurry images and emotions bombarding me. I'm not even sure which are hers and which are mine. I try to reach out mentally like she taught me to do, to get closerto her, and she jerks in my arms. "What are you doing?" She furrows her brow. "I mean – I know what you're doing. Do you?"

"I think so," I mutter, a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"I can feel it, a little." Her eyes light up, the tension between us forgotten for now as she shifts into teacher mode. "Try it again, but focus on a point this time. Make your search physical. You're moving to reach that point."

"What point?"

"The answer to your question," she huffs impatiently. "You weren't listening last Wednesday, were you? We talked about this."

Wednesday. Wednesday. Oh yeah. She was wearing a wicked, fitted green suit that brought out these hazel flecks in her pupils I'd never seen before. I got lost in contemplation of that topic for several minutes. Must've been somewhere in there. "Guilty," I smile.

"OK," she breathes, unsurprised. "Just – try it now."

A physical search, huh? I'd like to do one of those.

Concentrate. I need a question. A question.

All right.

What do you feel when you think of me? Do you only feel what this Brad moron taught you to feel, or is there room in there for me?

Wait, that's two questions. Oh, hell, I'm no good at this.

She can see my frustration. "Wait, don't tense up. Relax. Here, I'll meet you halfway." Her eyes bore into me and I try to open up. Then I turn up the volume, the hand on her waist moving to the skin of her upper arm.

That makes a difference. The increased contact drags a small gasp out of her, but I ignore it and tighten my hold slightly. Explosions go off in my brain, but I ignore those too. God, if this is what it's like when I'm touching her with only my hands, what would it be like to – 

Her eyes widen. Careful, Johnny.

"You're not there yet," she tells me, her voice almost a whisper. "Try to send me something instead, an image or a phrase. Maybe something that happened today that'd still be fresh in your memory."

I think for a minute, and then I latch onto it. Debating with myself for all of a hundredth of a second, I decide it won't reach her anyway.

 – The roller coaster car jerks under us. "Oh dear. Here we go." Carmen's hands grip the barin front of her, the knuckles turning white.

I take my right hand and lay it over her left. "I've got you."

Carmen looks over at me and murmurs, "I can see why she's in love with you." – 

Monica jumps away from me like she's been electrocuted. "Mother of God," she whispers. Her hands are shaking, every part of her is shaking.

It takes me a few seconds to recover. "You got all of that?" I rasp.

"I could see her. It's like I was sitting there beside her."

"Monica," I begin, not sure what I'm going to say next, but thankfully she cuts me off.

"Why did you send me that?"

"I guess it's pretty fresh in my memory," I lie. Truth is, I'm not sure why I did it. It's not right to confront her when she's told me to back off.

"You have to understand Carmen. She says outrageous things for effect."

"I understand."

"It's not as though she and I had some sort of heart to heart chat in our bunny feet pajamas while curling each others' hair."

"You got bunny foot pajamas?" I ask her, smiling in spite of the situation.

"John," she sighs, blushing slightly. God, I want to touch her again so badly it's giving me the shakes, too. How did this happen?

"We should go,"she says, heading into the house to gather their stuff.

I stand there for a second, stunned.

"Don't just gape at her like a trout."

I spin toward the bench. Carmen hasn't moved, but one brown eye is fastened on me. I groan inwardly.

"Go after her, you dope."

"Thanks for the advice. You want to suggest what I should say, too?"

"There isn't time. Just stop trying to figure out how she feels and tell her how you're feeling."

I shake my head at the irony of the whole thing. She's got it all figured out at eleven. When she's twenty, there won't be a man on the planet who can keep up with her.

I tell my feet to move before she can command them.

Inside, Carmen's aunt is tearing around my living room, looking for some article that's gone missing. I stay in the doorway. "Monica. Don't go this way."

She speaks, but her head's still down, searching tables, chairs. "John, I can't do this. Maybe I'm a coward, but I told you why in Montreal, and I hoped you'd understand."

The shame washes over me at her soft words. "I do understand, and you've got to believe it isn't like me to do – what I've been doing." That sounds so damn pathetic. "I don't force myself on women."

"Oh, for Gods' sake, John, don't get all Tennessee Williams on me. I don't think you've been forcing yourself on me. We have this connection – I've never experienced one this strong before – and it's new to you, and you can't help – "

"Wait a minute," I interrupt. "You've never experienced this kind of – connection?"

She stops and looks up at me then. Damn, but I love the fight in her that overpowers even her biggest fears. "No. And while I think it has the potential to make us an extremely effective team in the field, I also think it could – lead to other consequences."

Such as the most incredible sex I could ever hope to participate in. Such as falling for her even more than I have already. "Such as?"

She chews her lower lip, then catches herself doing it. "Complications," she states finally.

"Things are complicated now." Just do it. Say it. "I'm starting to feel again. I mean, I'm starting to feel things besides anger, and disgust, and indifference." I chuckle softly. "Indifference. That's the wonder drug. After the anger and disgust, I couldn't get enough of that." I'm inside the room now, moving like a caged animal. "For years – God, years – it was like being wrapped in cotton, bumping up against the world, but not really feelin' it, you know? Yeah, without that – insulation, things are sure a hell of a lot more complicated.

"And at the same time, it's simpler. I can laugh without feeling guilty, be around kids without feeling this crushing – weight"  – I suck in a harsh breath –  "on my chest, and I can look at you and think how great it feels to be alive instead of walkin' around like one of Mulder's zombies."

Her eyes are brimming with tears. She opens her mouth, then closes it. I hold up a hand.

"Look, I have no right to expect anything from you, and I don't. It seems that way now, but it's just the reflex reaction of a guy who had systematically severed all of his nerve endings, and wakes up one morning to find them healed. I'll get used to it. Even though you're the reason this happened, I don't dream we're going to live happily ever after, or that you have to go on being my nursemaid. You've reminded me that life is meant to be lived,and I'll always be grateful to you for that. It's not going to interfere with our work, and that's a promise."

Dad's voice haunts me. Never make promises you can't keep, boy.

I can. I will. For her. I won't lose her because I can't keep Junior in my pants.

But that's not all it is.

"Is that it?"

"What?" My attention takes a second to refocus.

"I said, is that it?" Her hands are planted on her hips. She looks like a tall, avenging goddess. War is definitely her specialty. "You confess I've completely changed your life, but you'll get over it, thanks ever so?"

"No. Yes. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"How come I'm so easy to get over? What the hell's the matter with me?"

I gape at her like a trout.

She starts some pacing of her own. "This is wonderful. Just when I find out how you feel, and you turn my insides to oatmeal, you calmly tell me you'll get over it. That's lovely. I've tinkered with you and fixed you without even meaning to, and now you're ready to live again. I'm glad to have brought your reflexes and nerve endings back to factory specs. I'm sure you'll put them to good use, with a new bimbo every night."

My head's spinning. "Who said anything about b – " I trail off, rewinding her words. "Oatmeal?" The pit of my stomach plunges for my shoes, then bounces back. I'm across the room in two strides and my hands are gripping her arms before I realize I've reached for her. "Dammit, Monica, what do you want?"

All the fight leaves her in the wink of an eye. She shakes her head miserably, not meeting my eyes. "I don't know. I don't know."

Throwing all my upbringing out the window, I fold her in my arms. I'm stacking the deck,but I don't care. "This Brad asshole – "

She breathes into my neck. "You're not Brad. Not even close." Her hands find purchase on the waistband of my jeans, over the small of my back.

"You're right I'm not Brad. I'd flatten anybody who tried to change you."

She chuckles, the vibration tickling me. "I'll do the flattening, thank you."

"Too late," I murmur into her hair. She raises her head then, and the brown depths of her eyes pull me in. "You already have." Watching every minute change of expression on her face to make sure this is all right with her, I reach up slowly to cup her jaw. I stroke the curve of her cheek with my thumb, and she turns her head into my palm. That's all the sign I need to bend slightly and bring my mouth to hers. The kiss is easy, and gentle, and it makes my heart grow in my chest.

Not wanting to scare her, I end it sooner than I want to. We lean in and touch our foreheads together.

"Now I'll never get over you," I tell her. "Happy now?"

She laughs. "Happy. Scared. Amazed. Have I missed anything?"

"Nope. That about covers it for me, too."

"Can I make one request?"

"You can make a thousand."

"Go easy on me."

"Aw, Jesus, Monica," I whisper. Wanting to kiss away everything that bastard ever did but knowing that's not what she needs, I console myself with plunging my hands in her warm, silky hair. It's so fine to the touch, it's like it's not of this earth. "That's a promise I can keep."

"Make that two requests."

I try not to let them, but my limbs stiffen anyway. "Sure," I manage.

"Cook for me again? I found out tonight the sight of you in the kitchen is an incredible turn-on."

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding, and pull her close again. "You're crazy,"I laugh.

"Is that a no?"

"Darlin', you can stick me in my skivvies and chain me to the stove if that's what you want." She punches me in the shoulder, then returns my hug. The energy of this connection we share hums through me. When I relax my hold to look into her eyes, the reflection I see is startling, and at first I don't recognize the guy.

But I'll get used to him.  


**Author's Note:**

> First published c. 2001.


End file.
